


To Lie Down With Wolves

by pokeasleepingsmaug, underthenorthstar



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Derogatory Language, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gore, Master/Slave, Sexual Content, Viking Age, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 23:31:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug, https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthenorthstar/pseuds/underthenorthstar
Summary: “Are you scared, little lamb? Are you frightened, to be amongst wolves? Knowing at any moment one could open its jaws and swallow you whole?”When Imogene’s Saxon village is raided by the fearsome Northmen, she is captured and taken as a prize of victory. Her new owner is a tall and handsome man, stern and angry and….not entirely what she was expecting. As she begins to live her new life among the barbaric and strange people, she remains intrigued by the man she now calls master. Why is he so angry? Why does she find him so alluring? She doesn’t know….but she is about to find out what happens when a lamb is claimed by a wolf.





	1. Chapter 1

Imogene hasn't seen a wolf since she was small, the winter the snow reached halfway up the side of her family's cottage. A pack of them stalked through the village one twilight—starving, mangy things with shaggy dark hides and eyes that glistened amber in the deepening shadows. They were a far cry from the creature before her now; the only similarity is the hungry gleam in the eyes. This one is sleek and strong, tongue lolling lazily between long white teeth. His head tilts back. He's so close she can see the movement of his throat as he releases a long, ululating cry. The hair stands on her arms. 

Imogene runs. She can feel his breath on the back of his neck, hear the swish of his paws through the grass. She can almost picture the wolf gathering himself for the leap and prepares herself to feel his claws sink into her skin. She knows he will kill her, bury his long muzzle in her belly and gorge himself on her entrails. She can see it in her mind: her blood staining his gray face red. She screams.

And wakes, bathed in a cold sweat. She's had this dream since that night she saw the wolves so long ago. But the screaming doesn't stop. Instead of the howling of wolves, all she hears are the shouts of fighting men, the grunt of effort and the reverberating ring of steel against steel. The fighting must be just outside her door. There are no windows in the one-roomed house. She gropes beside her and grasps her little sister's nightgown. The floor is cold under her bare feet as she drags Brida through the darkness, toward the crack of flickering orange where the door doesn't quite join up with the floor. The color of it reminds her of the wolf's eyes.

Her hands shake as she pushes open the rough wooden door. Imogene doesn't see the man until he's already wrapped his arms like iron bands around her, locking her against his blood-spattered leather armor. The smell of him makes her wretch—blood and sweat and fear, more cloying than the incense the priest burns on Easter. He must have dropped a torch, there's one at her feet that burns the hem of her nightgown. As the man stamps out the small flames, Imogene pushes Brida toward the woodline. Maybe she can escape, tell others what happened. Maybe she will return with an army. 

Her heart sinks into the soles of her feet as she watches her little sister stumble away. The man is tall, her head reaches only to his chest. He grunts as he hefts her over his shoulder. The small village is burning around them, and Imogene squeezes her eyes shut as she sees Aedward with his skulll split in two. He baked the best bread in town. Imogene has never smelled death on this scale before—the stench of blood and burning meat is inescapable. It's a scent that will haunt her dreams for the rest of her days. She wretches but her stomach is empty. A thin stream of bile slithers from her mouth and down the man's back.

The raider sets her down roughly, his cold blue eyes narrow, and he pushes his face close to hers. It's the first time she's seen him. Blood colors his beard red, much like the wolf's muzzle from her dream. She cannot help the comparison, because he is that savage, that wild. He speaks her language but the inflection is wrong and his voice is a growl that makes her shiver. “Worthless little bitch, you will clean the blood and vomit from my armor with your tongue.” 

The back of his hand crashes into her cheek with enough force to knock her teeth together. She sways on her cold bare feet, the world swimming before her eyes. The last thing she feels is his hard arm around her waist, his shoulder pushing into her stomach. 

…..

She comes to awareness slowly, like rising out of the deep ocean toward the light at the surface. First she is aware of hard wood beneath her back, then of a gentle rocking sensation. It's calm, peaceful, and she hovers in near-wakefulness from the sheer tranquility of it. The sun is on her face and arms and the lower half of her legs and the wind smells of salt and runs gentle fingers through her hair. There are sounds she isn't familiar with; a large amount of liquid slapping against a hard surface and the snap of wind stretching fabric. Someone is speaking nearby and she struggles to understand the words. 

They sound almost the same as her language but the accents are strange and the words don't quite make sense in her ear. The rhythms, though, and the way the words leave the mouth, are the same.

Imogene opens her eyes. Immediately she regrets it. She's on a ship, a crimson sail pregnant with wind above her head. The men surrounding her are shirtless, sweat running down their bodies in small rivers, and they're pulling hard on oars like murderers fleeing the law. Imogene realizes that's because they are. Mountains of bloody armor and weapons are scattered around the ship, stinking in the sun. Even the smell of the sea cannot mask the sickening scent of death that clings to these men like maggots on corpses. 

Brida isn't on the ship, isn't among the other women huddled with their hands tied together in the belly of it. Maybe there is still hope for rescue, but Imogene knows in her heart that she is lost. The only ships in her village and the ones nearby are slow fishing vessels. She's never been on a ship before but the feel of the wind lets her know they are traveling fast. 

A shadow falls over her and a mess of stinking, gory leather lands in a heap before her bare feet. She looks up, into the face of the man who carried her from her house. The blood is washed from his beard but he looks no less predatory for all that. “Clean it, thrall.” His voice is low and dangerous, Imogene's shaking hand moves to obey, compelled by the inherent threat his tone promises. She gathers the armor into her lap and grabs a fistful of her dirty nightgown to start the cleaning. “No.” He shakes his head. “I told you earlier. With your tongue.”

She leans down and drags her tongue across the dirty leather. The taste of iron and salt twists her stomach into hard knots. But the man is standing over her, his arms crossed over his chest. She remembers the way they wrapped around her like chains, the throbbing crack of his hand against her cheek. She doesn't dare to stop. Tears leak down her cheeks, and the tall man just laughs. He makes no move to walk away, and she knows he is going to ensure his armor is spotless. Imogene wishes for the wolf from her dream. At least he would kill her quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogene suffers through the long voyage back to Kattegat, and arrives to the strange barbaric town with more trepidation and fear than she has ever felt before.
> 
> TW: descriptions of blood, death, physical abuse, mentions of non con, derogatory language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your support on the first chapter! We are very excited to be writing this story together. Please enjoy chapter 2!

They are on the boat for what feels like years. 

It is crowded, smelly, noisy. Sometimes Imogene thinks she must have died and gone to Hell itself. Surely that could be the only explanation for this torture? What has she done to deserve this? She is a good Christian girl. She says her prayers and goes to service and does her best not to sin. So why, why this? 

She has never been so disgusted or humiliated. The men in the boat leer at her, making what she assumes are filthy comments in a tongue she does not understand. There is no privacy in which to make waste or water. Her monthly bleeding comes and there is no extra rags for her to use. She sits on the deck, hands bound, crying silently as blood oozes from between her thighs and stains her nightgown. She is cold, hungry, and thirsty. She is tired, for she does not dare to sleep. She wishes she had the courage to throw herself overboard and die in the sea.

Her captor, the tall wolf, stares at her often. It is not the leer of the other men, but it is not a friendly gaze either. He has not said anything more to her since the horrifying task of cleaning his armour. He simply stares, his rugged face twisted in a permanent scowl. She cannot bring herself to look at him for long. She is afraid that if she does, he will morph into the terrifying wolf of her dreams, his sharp white teeth stained red with the blood of her people. So she keeps her head down, eyes averted.

Imogene is not stupid, she knows why he has taken her. She will be his, for whatever purpose. She shudders and whimpers in agony at the thought, at what she has heard pagan men do to the women they capture. He will beat her, shame her. He will take her against her will, he will destroy her maidenhead and claim it for his own. He will hurt her, and she will cry and beg for death. Perhaps his seed will take root, and a demon will claw its way out of her womb. She has the sudden image of sharp black claws tearing out of her abdomen, and she promptly vomits on herself. No one looks at her or cares. 

Finally, finally, they reach their destination. A bustling town, nestled on an inlet surrounded by mountains. It is surprisingly picturesque. Men, women and children wait on the docks to welcome the boats. She barely has time to take them in before she is being dragged roughly to her feet with the other captives. She stumbles, her useless legs giving way beneath her as she stands for the first time in ages. The tall wolf growls, and his large hand grabs her tangled hair and yanks her to her feet. She cries out, but is silenced by another harsh painful tug and a shove forward. 

"Move, Saxon whore," he snaps, deep voice laden with contempt. "Move your fat, ugly arse!" She lurches forward, tears leaking from her eyes and her scalp burning. She can feel the dried filth and blood on her thighs as she climbs awkwardly out onto the dock. Her nightgown, stained with blood and muck and vomit, hangs off one shoulder, threatening to expose her indecently. With her hands still tied, she cannot fix it. She simply walks forward, tears flowing, until the wolf barks at her.

"Stop, bitch," his deep voice is like the clanging of a thousand gongs. "Do not move unless I say."

She stares at the ground, listening to him speak to another man in his strange tongue. The other captive women huddle around her, sobbing and wailing. The voices continue, then suddenly her chin is being yanked up by a rough hand. 

Ice blue eyes stare into her face, cold and ruthless. The new barbarian studies her closely, his ale soaked breath burning her nostrils. His face is hard and sharp, his gaze calculating and cruel. He says something in his native tongue; the wolf answers him. He laughs, and the grip on her chin tightens painfully. She whimpers, and his lips curve into a malicious smile. He says something else to the wolf, and then he is gone, moving on to the next woman. She screams and recoils when he touches her; he takes a knife from his belt and slits her throat on the spot.

Once again, she vomits all over herself.

The wolf grabs her arm. His grip is strong, his fingers like iron bands. 

"Come, bitch," he growls, and she can't look into his heathen face, she can't. Her eyes are glued to the body pouring blood on the ground. "Your duty starts now."

She was wrong, before. The boat was not Hell.

This was. 

And she is surrounded by wolves and devils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find us on Tumblr :) 
> 
> @pokeasleepingsmaug  
> @underthenorthstar


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very first thing we see from Ubbe's point of view, hope you guys like it!

Ubbe misses the warmth of his wife. There's nothing quite so comforting as a warm body huddled against his in the soft furs, the roundness of a hip for his arm to wrap around and legs tangling with his in sleep. He even yearns for long hair in his face, tickling his cheek and and sometimes even ending up squeaking between his teeth. He used to hate that, used to beg Margrethe to braid her hair before she came to bed but she would always laughingly refuse. 

He tries his best not to think of her, but some days are harder than others. His son is the spit of her—wavy blond hair and wide blue eyes in a round, pale face. He sees little of himself in the boy, although he's sure that when Jerrik is older, his body, at least, won't resemble Margrethe. She was all curves and softness, used to complain sometimes that his body was too hard for her to rest comfortably against because he is all hard sinews and strength. Still, that never kept her from running her hands over his taut muscles, never stopped her fingers from tracing the tattoos and scars that adorned his body like marks of honor. 

Ubbe can't take it anymore. He sits up abruptly, looking around in the flickering shadows thrown by the banked fire. After his eyes adjust to the strange play of light and dark they find Jerrik automatically. He's always loved watching his son sleep, the rise and fall of his thin chest predictable and reassuring as the tides. When Jerrik is awake he's all erratic energy and swiftness, snow-melt rushing down a mountainside. He strides over to him on silent feet, running a gentle hand through the soft blond hair. Jerrik sighs heavily but does not stir.

He spares one more tender glance for his son before looking for the slave. She's huddled in a thin blanket in the corner, and draws it up over her body even further when she sees him approach. Ubbe's sick of seeing her flinch all the time, and doesn't consider even for a moment that her fear might be justified. He bends down and grabs her arm, pulling her up. He isn't as gentle as he could be, and he knows this but he doesn't care. He starts dragging her toward his bed.

She digs her heels in, a frightened squeak leaving her bow-shaped lips, and Ubbe frowns at her and tugs on her arm again. She's shaking her head frantically, blue-gray eyes wide and frightened, face gray as ash. He rolls his eyes and tosses her over his shoulder. Her small fists beat into his back furiously, but her blows are weak. She's obviously never hit a man before. She's crying as he heaves her forward and pushes her down into the furs, and Ubbe rolls his eyes as he climbs in after her. “I'm not going to fuck you, you ugly Saxon bitch. I just hate a cold bed.”

Only half of that is a lie. Now that she's bathed and he burned the disgusting nightgown she was captured in, he's forced to admit to himself that she's a lovely girl. He'd thought she was pretty the day he snatched her and carried her away, but over the course of the journey he'd forgotten. During the voyage she looked and smelled like she'd rolled in a pigpen, but he supposed that was half his fault for not allowing her to wash. What does it matter, though? She's only a Saxon, and a slave to boot. Ivar's orders had been clear before the raid had set out. Do not untie the captives for any reason. Ubbe hadn't dared disobey—his son was staying with Ivar, and he knew some of the men wouldn't hesitate to tell the king if he'd put so much as one toe over the line. No slave, no matter how pretty, is worth the life of his son. 

Her body is strung tighter than Sigurd's lute as she feels his weight settle in the bed behind her, and Ubbe feels her scoot as close to the edge as she can get. She's whimpering in fright, Ubbe makes shushing noises and flicks the back of her ear with his finger. She hisses in pain but then falls silent, and Ubbe relaxes into her warmth.

Finally his bed is full and welcoming after nearly two years of emptiness, and it feels like coming home after a very long journey. He's already cozied up to her like like a kitten to its mother. Ubbe hasn't felt warm properly since Margrethe, and for just a moment he allows himself to forget how much he misses her.

…

Ubbe awakens shaking and sweating, Margrethe's pallid face still swimming behind his closed eyelids. He knows it must be nothing but a nightmare. Like a plant turning its face to the sun, he draws closer to the summery heat of his wife beneath the furs. He sweeps aside her silky hair to plant a soft kiss on the back of her neck, then wraps an arm securely around her waist and pulls her round rump against his hips.

The body in his grasp feels wrong—it's tense, Margrethe never tensed at his touch. The hip is rounder, the ass more ample against him. He's only half-awake but rousing quickly as he slides a hand up to firmly palm a tit through the nightgown. Definitely not Margrethe. Finally his eyes pop open, and with a shout of disgust he shoves the slave onto the floor. He ignores her as she scrambles toward her blanket in the corner, and buries his face in the furs. Margrethe's face hangs before his eyes like an accusation, pale and twisted with pain.

He draws a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself but the slave's scent fills his nose. Guilt rips him apart like a pack of starving wolves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubbe feels guilty, and there is some drama in the Great Hall. 
> 
> TW: derogatory names, one teeeny mention of implied non con

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more of Ubbe's point of view! Thank you everyone for reading what we have so far, hope you are enjoying it!

Ubbe is tense. 

He barely slept last night after what happened with the slave, too eaten up by guilt to find any respite within dreams. She had felt so good in his arms, her cleaned skin soft against his and that damn scent wrapping itself around him like a warm fur. It was wrong. She was nothing, a Saxon whore who was worth about as much as a fattened pig. His sweet Margrethe would hate him if she knew the thoughts that plagued him. And that makes him hate himself. 

Ivar has called all his important men to dine with him this morning, to discuss the success of the raid. He had also asked for all the slaves to be brought as well, so he can choose which ones he wants for his personal household. He pointedly avoids looking at where they are huddled in the middle of the hall, like lambs ready for slaughter. He cannot look at her, not after the thoughts that filled his head last night. 

His brother sits on their father's throne, lazily picking at some food while his ever sharp eyes peruse the room. Ubbe has to admit; Ivar has been a good king these last few years. Kattegat has prospered under his rule, although he is not sure how much he should attribute that to Ivar's level headed Queen. How his hot headed brother ever managed to capture the heart of someone like Ljota is beyond him.

The woman in question is seated on his left, new babe nursing contentedly at her breast. Ubbe chooses to look at his niece for a while; it is better than looking at who sits on the other side of Ivar, in the chair of highest command. His fist clenches involuntarily. It should be him, seated next to the king, leading the armies when Ivar chooses not to. It should be him, and not Hvitserk. 

But Ivar does not forgive easily, if ever. And Hvitserk did not fall prey to Lagertha's schemes. Hvitserk did not fail his family. 

Ivar clears his throat, interrupting Ubbe's morose thoughts, and the room falls to silence. 

"Men, the gods have indeed blessed us this spring. Another successful raid against the Saxons, slaves and riches and livestock beyond what we could have hoped. And," he pauses, reaching out to run a hand reverently over the nursing babe beside him, "they have also seen it fit to give me a daughter and heir."

At this there is loud cheering and pounding of cups on tables. Ivar holds up his hands, and there is silence once more. 

"Each man will get his pick of the plunder, both treasures and slaves alike. As your King, I will take for my household first. I know I did not raid with you, for I did not wish to miss my child's birth. Since that is a gift far above what we have taken from the Christians, I will only take a few slaves for myself. The rest is yours."

More cheers fill the air. Ubbe chances a glance over to the mass of scared women. She is right in the middle of them, clearly terrified but standing tall. Her gaze suddenly swivels to him, as if she can sense his eyes upon her. The flinch that wracks her body is so obvious he can practically feel it himself. Her wide doe eyes are locked on his, pink lips parted slightly. Her cheeks are flushed, her dark hair coming undone from the hasty braid trailing down over her ample chest. The words pretty, pretty, pretty echo furiously in his mind, and the hatred he feels in that moment for her is utterly overwhelming. He wants to stride over there and rip her apart with his bare hands. How dare she make him think such thoughts?

Ivar has left his throne now, his crutches scraping over the floor as he makes his way towards the slaves. He surveys the whimpering woman briefly, and Ubbe cannot help but notice that his eyes linger on her. 

Something odd bubbles in his chest; he does not like the idea of his brother owning her. Mine, his inner wolf growls savagely. He desperately tries to push the wolf down, to tamper these strange feelings of possessiveness. He watches Ivar reach out to touch her as she recoils, and the wolf within gives a wild, warning howl. He is up and moving before he even realizes it. 

"That one is mine," the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "I stole her. Pick another."

Ivar looks shocked for a moment, before storm clouds brew in his icy eyes. "And who are you to make such claims, brother? Are you saying you, Ubbe the Traitor, should have pick ahead of your King?"

The title makes his heart twist painfully, but he stands his ground. "I do not ask for much, Ivar. I accept my status in your eyes, I do as you ask without complaint. Give me this."

Ivar's answering grin is mocking, cruel. "You do not ask for much because you know you deserve even less. You know what you have done. Why then should I allow you to even have a slave at all? You do not want this bitch for any reason other than that I do." 

"Ivar, I am asking as-"

"Asking as what? A brother? You are barely my brother anymore. Only birthblood ties us. You are making an even bigger fool out of yourself, Ubbe. Who is this slave to you, other than a chance to make a Saxon pig squeal?"

He should concede. He should step back and let Ivar take her. His brother is right. What is she to him? Sure, he may have enjoyed her warmth last night. He may even find her bland Saxon features mildly pleasing. But she is property, she is lower than dirt, she is less than even he is. She is not worth another fight.

But the wolf does not want to leave the lamb to be crushed by the serpent. 

"If she is nothing more than a pig, then she is fitting for me, is she not?" He grabs her by the arm; she shrieks in terror and tries to pry him off. He holds on tighter. "Let the filth have the filth."

Ivar opens his mouth to reply, his hand straying to the axe strapped to his belt. But before he can do or say anything, the clear voice of Ljota cuts him off. 

"I wish to have the smallest girls for our house, husband mine," she says, and there is iron in her voice. "Their fingers are nimble for needlework, and our daughter should have the finest clothes. Let Ubbe have the fat sow. She is of no use to me."

His heart gives a strange flutter of dread and relief. Ivar may be king of Kattegat, but Ljota is Queen of Ivar. A curt nod, an icy glare, the slave cries quietly beside him. Ivar will not forget this. 

But the wolf is allowed to keep the little lamb....

And he curses himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find us on tumblr, same URLs as our usernames!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogene and Ubbe have an interesting morning.

Imogene knows God has forsaken her when she begins to understand the heathen tongue; when the growls and snarls of the tall wolf begin to form words in her ear. She will live and die in sin, and even the flames of hell will not be hot enough to cleanse the filth from her soul. She has not even been among the heathens for a full turn of the moon, and this is the moment that makes her realize rescue is not coming. There was always some hope, buried deep in her, that Brida had rallied the surrounding villagers. She realizes now it was a fool's dream; those taken aboard the long, fast ships never return from the frozen north.

Her hope withers, leaving her empty as a winter woods. Not even the voice of the wolf's pup, bright and clear as birdsong, lifts her spirits on that cold late-summer morning. “Papa, is she staying with us forever? I like her. She cooks better than you.” Her master merely snorts. She's come to learn that he seldom speaks before breakfast. Instead, it's always Jerrik's cheerful little voice breaking the tense silence of early morning. Sometimes his innocence lightens her, but this morning he fills her with despair because she understands everything he's saying. Imogene wishes she had the courage to run to the shoreline and fill her lungs with this bitter northern sea. Instead, she turns the bread over to keep it from burning. Weak, so weak. Her legs are like lead but her hands are steady. A small victory.

Ubbe—that's his name, the wolf's, and although she doesn't dare use it she can't help but wonder how it would taste on her tongue—holds a callused hand out to her. She drops a loaf of hot bread into his palm, keeping her eyes on the floor. His eyes are on her like teeth dragging across her skin. It's all she can do not to squirm under the weight of his gaze. She can't fathom why he fought so hard to keep her, can't forget the anger roiling in his bright eyes. Her upper arm still bears bruises from his iron fingers. She only understands that she's his now, forever, and somehow he seems better than the man with the useless legs. Imogene shudders, remembering again the flash of his knife, the spill of blood from the woman he killed on the docks. Better an angry wolf than a swift, glinting knife. 

She can hear the quiet ripping of the bread in Ubbe's long, blunt fingers. He huffs a few short breaths on it, and out of the corner of her eye she sees him hold the bread out to his son. The boy pops it into his mouth and shoots a grin at her. “S'good.” Imogene smiles at him, quick and tentative, before ducking her head back to the floor. Ubbe's eyes are still on her, a wolf deciding where to sink his fangs. Imogene tries her best to ignore him. 

She stands, forces her leaden legs to move to the small bed in the corner. Smoothing the furs gives her something to do, something to focus on besides the inescapable gaze of the predator she calls master. When the furs are arranged nicely on Jerrik's bed, she moves toward the large bed on the opposite wall. She's barely laid a hand on it when feet are thudding quickly across the wooden floor toward her. A hand is on her throat before she can even cry out, forcing her against the wall beside the bed. 

“You do not touch my bed,” Ubbe growls, his breath hot in her face. His fingers tighten like chains across her throat, and her hands scrabble uselessly against his iron grip. “Do you understand?” He's forcing her to meet his cold, brilliant blue eyes, narrowed with rage. She barely has the presence of mind to nod. He loosens his fingers just a fraction; she watches his bright eyes flit down to her parted lips before his gaze bores into her again. 

He's gone as swiftly as he was at her throat, broad back retreating as she falls gasping to her knees. The silence in the hut seems to hum with tension; she sees it in Jerrik's wide, startled eyes, the way he refuses to look away from the fire. Ubbe carelessly tosses a basket full of laundry at her without even looking in her direction. She doesn't catch it in time, and scrambles to pick it all up before he notices and chokes her again. “Do not come back until it's dry.” He's panting like he's the one who was choked, like he can't catch his breath, and he still won't look toward her. 

Imogene is halfway out the door when a snarl from Ubbe halts her, a rabbit frozen in the path of a wolf. He shoves a cloak roughly into her hands. She doesn't pause to put it on until she's well away from his house, but she's glad for it. The sun has barely risen and the cold dew is soaking through the hem of her dress. The village is quiet this early in the morning, only a few women are gathered at the well for water. Imogene ignores them, head down, as she walks to the stream at the edge of the woods. 

She sighs and ties her skirt above her knees to save it from the mud of the bank. God has already left her to live in sin, what does she care if someone sees her bare legs? Better the indignity of bare legs than her only dress being filthy. The muck feels like ice against her knees as she sinks into it, pulling the first piece of soiled clothing out of basket and dunking it into the water. The chill settles itself deep into the joints of her fingers. She grabs the chunk of hard gray-white soap and rubs it roughly over the garment.

She sets the soap aside, kneading the large green tunic to work the dirt and sweat out. She pushes it under the cold water again, working her fingers methodically through the soapy fabric. The suds swirls away along the glinting surface, and Imogene pulls the tunic from the water. She shakes it hard, sending droplets flying, and stands to drape the shirt over the branch of a nearby tree to dry.

She kneels again, scrubbing and scrubbing until her hands are chapped and raw and her knees filthy and numb. The sun is high in the sky now and she's since removed the cloak Ubbe gave her and washed it. Imogene presses her stiff hand into the small of her aching back, groaning as she straightens.

“Why didn't you wash your dress?” She jumps to her feet at the deep voice, and her master steps toward her with amusement glinting cruelly in those hungry eyes of his. 

“I—it's the only dress I have.” Imogene hates the way her voice sounds, rough and squeaky from disuse. She can't even remember the last time she's spoken. 

The wolf wrinkles his nose in mild distaste. “All the more reason to wash it.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and Imogene barely stops herself from whimpering. There's something dangerous in the way he's standing, like keeping himself from pouncing on her is an immense effort. “Wash your dress. And,” he swallows, his throat bobbing. “Tell me your name.”

“Imogene.” She's barely breathing as she loosens the ties on her dress, unable to meet his eyes as she feels them devouring her. Unbearable humiliation rises to color her face red. This heathen, this sinful man with his hungry eyes and hard hands, will be the first to see her nakedness. She hates that she is his, hates the way she obeys him. Maybe a flashing knife across her throat would be better than this slow torture, this patient predator toying with his food. She wants to scream, to cry, to push him down into the cold stream and watch his skull crack on the rocks.

Instead, her shaking hands pull the dress over her head. The crisp air kisses her skin, raising goosebumps on her arms, and her nipples tighten against the cold. She shivers as she dips the dress into the cool stream, the water up to her elbows. She drags the dress out and runs the bar of soap all over it, fingers quickly working to scrub her only dress clean. She dunks it into the water again, hating the feel of this man's predatory gaze on her exposed skin. Imogene is weak, so weak, as she rises to hang her dress on a branch. 

She finds the damp cloak and drags it down, wrapping it around herself and finally feeling a little safer. When she turns back around, face still burning, Ubbe is gone. Only the snap of a branch and a soft growl let her know he was there at all. Imogene sinks to her sore, dirty knees, and cries. She wants to to bathe, to wash the feeling of his eyes from her skin, but she's afraid he's still watching her. Stalking her from the shadows like the wolf from her nightmares. She hugs the cloak tighter and tries to still her shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Find us on Tumblr if you want to follow our writing process! Same URLs as our usernames :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogene learns of her master's wife
> 
> TW: derogatory language, abuse (hair pulling, slapping), master/slave dynamics, description of murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter! Please let us know how you liked it!

Imogene cannot shake yesterday from her mind.

Her nakedness exposed, not only to a stranger, but a heathen no less. The wolf, his eyes so hungry and all consuming. He had looked like he could not decide whether he wanted to tear out her throat or take her up in the throes of lovemaking. That thought made her shiver in fear. He would not be gentle, none of these uncivilized men were. It would hurt, and she would cry burning tears of anguish and shame afterwards. She has thought these thoughts many times, so much in fact that she steels herself for it every time he looks in her direction. 

But one tiny part of her wonders why he has not done so yet. Surely it is common for these barbarians to rape their slaves. Why has she remained untouched? He has hit her, sure, held her against him in his bed but he has never touched her as a man would touch his wife. Do these heathens really have restraint? Do they truly fight against the sin of lust? Surely they do not even view it as a sin, so why is the wolf holding himself back? She knows she should be grateful he does, she IS grateful, but it confuses her all the same. 

Perhaps he has a wife, perhaps fidelity is a notion in these cold northern lands. But she has never seen a woman around. She has to admit, she is curious as to where the mother of his child is. Did he beat her, mistreat her till she fled? Did she die giving birth? She should not wish to know, but she does. 

"Hello."

Her thoughts are interrupted by the little wolf pup, a shy smile on his face as he stands before her. She cannot help but smile back, she is growing to like this heathen child. He is kind and sweet and innocent. It reminds her of her little sister back home. 

"Hello," she says quietly, setting down her mending for a moment. "Do you need something?"

The child shakes his head, sitting down beside her. "I just want to sit with you for a while, by the fire. It's cold outside."

She is taken aback slightly, but nods. She picks up her mending as the little wolf pup pulls some wooden figurines out of his pocket and begins to play. The silence is almost....comfortable. She can feel some of the ever present tension in her shoulders loosening. This child, he calms her. Is this what it would feel like to have a home of her own, a family that was hers? No, it was best not to think those sorts of thoughts. She shouldn't dwell on what she could never have. 

"Are you going to be my new mama?" 

The needle slips; bright red blooms on her finger. She looks at the pup in shock. 

"W-hat?"

"Are you going to be my new mama?" The boy asks, big eyes blinking innocently at her. "I would like a new mama. I don't remember mine. And I like you."

"I-I am a slave. A Christian slave," she manages to say, her heart galloping like a horse within her. "Nothing more."

The pup frowns. "Mama was a slave once, too. Papa freed her to marry her. Couldn't he do the same with you?"

His mother had been a slave? The wolf prince had married a servant? "What-what happened to you mother?"

"Oh, she died when I was one year old," the pup shrugs, as if such a thing was just a known fact.

"A sickness?" She shouldn't pry, but she is dying to know.

"No," the pup shakes his head. "Uncle Ivar killed her."

Bile rises in her throat. The king had killed his brother's wife! She knew their relationship was strained, but to take a child's mother from him in cold blood....

"Jerrick!"

They both freeze as her master's voice booms throughout the cabin. She does not even have to turn, she can tell by the tense timbre bouncing off the walls that he is angry. Beside her, the boy scrambles to his feet and hangs his head apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Papa, I know we aren't supposed to-"

"I will deal with you later," the wolf growls. "Now get out!"

The child hastens to obey, dashing out of the dim cabin as if the devil himself were nipping at his heels. Imogene stays frozen by the fire, unable to move, barely able to breathe. She hears the heavy clunking of his boots as he strides over to her. Every hair on her body is standing on end, every nerve tingling with a sort of sick anticipation. 

A large hand grabs her by the hair and hauls her to her feet; she cries out at the sudden pain and tries to twist away. It is in vain, as always. He turns her so she is crushed against his chest, the hand in her hair yanking her head back so she is forced to look upon his face. 

Anger is all she sees. Blind, white fury. 

"I-I'm sorry," she stutters, "I shouldn't have asked-"

"My wife was everything to me," he ignores her bleating pleas, arm so tight around her it feels like an iron band. "I loved her. And when she fell with child, I was the happiest man on Midgard."

His face twists into a mask of grief and pain. "But there was a war. I chose the wrong side. And for my punishment, my brother the King told me he would take away something that was most precious to me."

She cannot look away. She cannot close her eyes. She is transfixed by the anguish that contorts his features. 

"I thought he meant my child," Ubbe continues, digging sharp nails into her scalp. She whimpers feebly at the pain. "I begged for his life, for him to be spared. Ivar laughed and told me I needn't worry for my heir. There were other things that I loved."

"Please," she whines softly, tears beginning to slide down her face, "please, I do not need to know more-"

The hand in her hair leaves to smack sharply across her face. She cries out, tasting blood in her mouth. His hand closes around her jaw, grip bruising. 

"He brought her into the Hall," his eyes are wild, his teeth bared in a half crazed grimace. "He stood her in front of everyone. I tried to reach her. I was restrained. Then he took the sacrificial knife, for killing our animals to give thanks and appeasement to the gods. He proclaimed this a sacrifice to atone for my misdeeds, my betrayal. Then he slit her throat."

Tears are running freely now, on both of their faces. His eyes bore into hers, and she can see every emotion. Pain. Guilt. Anger. And suddenly, she feels something she thought she would never feel for her cruel pagan master. 

Sympathy. 

"I watched her die, unable to even hold her as she drew her last breath. They would not let me give her a proper funeral. I buried her in the hills. The grave is not even marked." His face softens for a moments, and his eyes go far away.

But then they return to her face, and the disgust that seeps from them is so palpable she can almost taste it on her tongue.

"So my actions killed my own wife. I did not use the blade, but I murdered her. And now I am a widower, and all I have is my boy. And a nosy, stupid Saxon whore who does not know her place!"

She sees the slap coming this time, and braces for it. It still hurts; her mouth fills up with blood. 

"I am sorry," she whimpers, tears and blood dripping down her chin. "Please, I did not mean-"

He pulls her face up to his, her feet are barely touching the floor. She can feel his ale soaked breath wash over her face, and she tries not to gag at the stale smell. She has not ever been this close to him. Her whole body is pressed up against his in an entirely improper way. She can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, can see every tiny scar on his face. The world seems to stop for a moment as they stare at each other, big wolf and little lamb. He stares at her, hard and angry....and then something in his face crumples, and a weariness beyond his young years settles over him. 

"Now you know. Do not speak of this ever again," his voice is quieter, softer. He flicks his eyes down to the blood dribbling from her mouth, and she does not know if she imagines a flicker of regret dance across his face. She simply nods, unable to speak. 

She expects to be shoved to the floor; instead, he gently sets her down and releases her from his grip. She barely gets her balance before he is gone, striding out the door and slamming it behind him. She stands alone in the cabin, mixed emotions bubbling within her. 

She is scared for her life . She is angry that she is here, that she must suffer this horrible punishment. She is in pain from his hands. 

But, she is surprised to discover the pain is only for her physical wounds. 

For the first time since he laid claim to her, she feels pain for the wolf. 

And that is the scariest feeling of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find us on Tumblr if you haven't already, same as our usernames on here!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubbe thinks about his actions, how he failed Margarethe and hurt Imogene. Eventually, he comes to find some solace in his son, Jerrick.

Ubbe carries regret like Yggdrasil carries the nine worlds, except unlike the great tree he feels stooped and breaking under the weight of it. He isn't straight and proud like an ash, isn't strong and wise like the great god who hung on the tree as a sacrifice to himself. Ragnar claims descent from that one-eyed god, but Ubbe does not possess the ability to suffer with grace. He merely cracks like branches under ice.

The wooden wall of his house is rough against his hand, and he knows he might find splinters in the morning. He doesn't care. No light glows out from the small crack under the door, and he thanks the gods for small mercies. Jerrick and Imogene are probably both sleeping, and he cannot face them tonight.

Not after the way he chased his son outside, the way he crushed the slave to him. Jerrick's eyes—Margrethe's eyes from his son's small face—haunt him even now. The fright in them reminded him of the time he choked Margrethe, when he believed she had betrayed him. He would give anything, anything, to go back to that moment, to feel her soft flesh beneath his bruising hands. To see her face, even if it's pale with fright.

Faces pale with fright is a thing that happens often in Ubbe's life. People say he is the good brother, the kind one, the reasonable one. The peacekeeper. It is a lie, and Ubbe knows it. People fear Ivar, his brutality and his cunning and his unpredictable temper. A man who takes his orders only from the gods is one who cannot be predicted, and so Ivar is an unknowable force, like the thunder of Thor himself. 

They should fear Ubbe because he is like a starving wolf. He is too much a creature of passion, as much at the mercy of his heart as a wolf to its stomach. He wishes Ivar had killed him instead of Margarethe, he wishes it every day. He tries so hard to be worthy of her memory, worthy of being the cause of her death. Jerrick's bright blue eyes are a constant, painful reminder of just how much he failed.

Every muscle is tensed like he's awaiting a blow to the head as he pushes open the door. The fire is banked and all is still. Ubbe stumbles to his cold bed and slides into the furs without even taking his boots off. He's afraid to move too much, afraid they'll look at him. Jerrick with his sleepy eyes, and Imogene with the bruises he's certain he left on her pretty face. Maybe when the sun rises it will melt the ice, and he won't break under the weight of their stares.

It isn't the sun that wakes him in the morning, but Jerrick's voice and the pounding of his head. He is thankful the cabin is gloomy as he opens his eyes. He sits with a groan, dropping his head into his hands for a moment. The small movement awakens a beast in his stomach, but he pushes the nausea down and rises on unsteady feet. He makes it to the fire and manages not to fall on his face, and Imogene is already offering him a cup of water and a bowl of something. 

Ubbe tries to catch her eye but she refuses to meet his gaze, and with a deep sigh he takes them from her. He deserves no attention from her, anyway, this pretty little woman he's ripped from her old life without a second thought. He chased her down and fought for her with the intensity of a wolf defending its pack, and he hates himself for it. He should drag her to the great hall by her hair, throw her at the foot of Ivar's throne, and beg to be rid of her. 

He isn't strong enough to let her go, surrender her to the torture he's certain Ivar would unleash upon her. Ubbe takes one look at her battered face, the bruises darkening her jawline, and nearly vomits into the bowl of porridge she's given him. Does he really think he's kinder than Ivar? At least Ivar was honest about who he was. He was not like Ubbe, a wolf masquerading in a man's skin. Ivar is a man of the gods, at the very least. Ubbe is nothing, a wild, passing shadow in the night woods. Men will only remember his name because he betrayed his brother, a great and powerful king,

“Papa,” Jerrick's voice draws him out of the drowning tide of his self-loathing, but it's hard for him to meet the boy's bright eyes. “Can you teach me archery today? Uncle Hvitserk says you're the best at it.” It's a simple statement, but it makes him want to cry. Maybe there is some small hope yet, if Hvitserk still says good things about him. It gives him the strength to look his son in the eye and smile. 

“Finish your breakfast and we'll go.” Jerrick begins shoveling the porridge into his mouth, and Ubbe can't stop the laugh that breaks out of him. He eats quickly, eager to get into the forest with his son. “You will come?” Ubbe's voice is soft, so soft, as he somehow fights his shame to look in Imogene's direction. 

She's shocked he's giving her a choice, and he gives her a small smile and nods to show she's free to choose for herself today. “Lord,” she stammers, “I—I would like to go. I'll bring my mending.” Her voice is raspy from disuse. He only nods and sets down his dishes, rising as Jerrick pulls on his boots. He's nearly dancing in eagerness, pulling his small bow and quiver of arrows off the hooks by the door. Ubbe grabs his, too, the massive bow that comes to his ribs if he sets one end of it on the ground. He does so, and Jerrick looks suitably impressed. 

Ubbe can't remember the last time his son looked at him like that, with those wide, awestruck eyes, and he hopes he lives up to Hvitserk's promises of greatness. He slings his arrows and the bow across his back. Jerrick imitates him, and Ubbe scoops the boy up with one arm and tosses him up onto his shoulders. He squeals with laughter as Ubbe ducks through the door, and they emerge into the watery sunlight of early harvest season. Ubbe breaks into an easy, loping jog, Jerrick's little feet kicking lightly against his chest, and for the first time in a long time, the angry wolf feels peace. 

He can hear Imogene not far behind them, her footsteps brisk. He doesn't look back at her, afraid to frighten her as he so often seems to. The sound of her feet rustling through the fallen leaves is enough. The clearing is an easy walk from his house at the edge of the village, and he sets Jerrick down at the edge of it. The grass is up to his waist as he breaks into a giggling run through it. Ubbe takes a moment just to watch him. He finds he's glad he lost his wife instead of his son, and the thought is like a fist to the chest. He turns away, unworthy of the joy of Jerrick's laughter.

He turns to get things set for the archery lesson, briefly noting Imogene leaning against a tree and pulling out a ripped cloak and a bone needle. “Jerrick,” he calls softly, and the boy pelts over to him through the long grass. Ubbe drops to a knee beside him and helps him unsling his bow. “Show me how you hold it.” Jerrick holds the bow up in his left hand and draws the string back with his right. “Hold it straight,” Ubbe corrects gently, adjusting the boy's grip a little. “This should be more comfortable.”

He pulls one of the small arrows from Jerrick's quiver and hands it to him. He fits the notches on the string and rests the shaft against the edge of his closed hand. “Aim with both eyes open,” Ubbe murmurs, shifting behind Jerrick and sighting along the arrow. “For that tree in front of you.” He watches the way the boy draws the bow. “A little further. Your hand to your cheekbone and look down along the arrow.” Jerrick grunts with effort, but pulls the bow back further. He can't hold it back very long, and the arrow sails toward the tree. It embeds itself right at the root.

Ubbe whoops with pride, clapping his son on the back. “Good! You'll get stronger the more you practice. You'll be killing Saxons before I can blink.” The statement is careless, but Ubbe hasn't felt this light since before Margarethe was murdered. He's able to push down the guilt of Imogene's eyes boring into him like crossbow bolts as Jerrick eagerly pulls another arrow from his small quiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, sorry for the delay on this one! Hope you guys enjoyed it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubbe and Lotja have an interesting conversation
> 
> TW: self loathing, derogatory language, master/slave dynamics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lazy ass finally updated! Sorry for the long wait!

Ivar has called for another raid. 

It is late in the season, but there is still time. They will not go far, just to the East, where the lands have not been plundered for some time. It will be a short trip, and they are sure to succeed. 

But Ubbe has no excitement for it. 

Barely a week has past since his outburst at...her, and things have been slowly shifting. It's subtle, barely there really, but he can feel it. He loathes her just a little bit less. He has been a tiny bit kinder in his dealings with her. He does not know how to tread softly, beasts like him were not meant to deal with such delicate flowers, but she does not stink so strongly of fear. Her eyes watch him, study him, and it guts him every time. He feels naked and exposed when he feels her looking, like she is seeing right through him into the black cavern he once called his heart. 

Part of him wants to leave for the raid now, to forget everything that weighs on him and bury himself in the beast that lurks within. To taste blood and hear steel, to take life and feel nothing. But there is a treacherous corner of him that does not want to go. That wants to stay, to grasp at this newness with trembling hands before it can slip away into the darkness. That corner wars with him, tugs at the tethers that still bind him to his dead wife. It gnaws at him like a rabid animal, and he does not know what to do.

Tonight, however, he will drown his worries and sorrow with ale. Ivar has called for a feast following his announcement, and the Hall is loud with merrymaking. He is sitting with some men who are too drunk to remember he is a loathsome traitor, trying and failing to keep his eyes from straying to her. Many servants were called to serve tonight, and she pours ale with hands that still shake, with eyes that still regard his people with wariness and fear. 

He is halfway drunk, and his guard is down. He lets himself drink in her strange beauty. She is still so soft and pale, ample hips swaying gently as she moves between tables. He finds he wants to grab hold of those hips, to feel her flesh dent beneath his eager fingers. She would be lovely to bed, he thinks. Soft and warm, those large doe eyes wide with pleasure, her tiny hands making little trails of red down his back. She probably has never been with a man, the way she acts. The idea to be her first is so intoxicating he nearly chokes on his drink. It's dangerous territory for his thoughts to stray, but he cannot help himself. He takes another large gulp as if the sour taste can burn the want right out of it. His normal self hatred is knocking at the gates of his mind, and despite the drink, he is tempted to let it back in. 

"You are very preoccupied tonight," a voice speaks to his left, and he is surprised to find his Queen settling herself on the bench beside him. His niece is swaddled safety in her arms, sleeping despite the racket around her. 

"Ivar will lose his mind if he sees you sitting with me," he answers, brows creasing. Lotja simply waves her hand in a careless manner. 

"Ivar is so drunk I will be surprised if he can find our bed later," she says. "He will not notice."

"And what do you have to say to a traitor like me, my Queen?" Ubbe's voice is sharp, questioning. "To what do I owe this honour?"

Dangerous, but his sister in law ignores it. "I want to speak to you about your slave."

That takes him by surprise. "My slave?"

"Yes," Lotja nods. "I am wondering if you are worried about needing permission from Ivar to marry her. He would not like it, but I am sure I could sway him, if you wish."

His heart skips a beat. "Marry her? Are you mad?"

"No, I simply have eyes," Lotja is looking at him like he is the one who is mad. "Ubbe, you clearly desire her. I know you, and I know Christians. You will not take her unwillingly, and she will not be willing unless she is wed."

"But I am married!" His voice is rising, his hand clenching his mug so tightly it is losing feeling. "She is a Saxon whore, a Christian pig, good for bedding once and tossing out!"

"Your wife has been dead for nearly three winters now," Lotja is blunt, and it hits him like a fist to the chest. "You are no longer bound to her. Ivar delivered a just punishment, of that I am certain. But I am also certain you have suffered enough for your crimes. Let yourself have something in this world. She can be converted, we can burn her filthy Christian ways out of her. You are a good man, Ubbe. Despite your mistakes, despite what has been done. You deserve to have what you want."

"Ivar would say differently," he spits, his minds eye filled with images from that horrible day, of Ivar laughing and his precious wife bleeding on the floor. The gates of his mind rush open, the grief and loathing spilling out like a river freed from a dam. "I deserve nothing. I should have died that day, instead of her! I deserve a dishonourable death, to be denied Valhalla and doomed to wander the desolate plains of Hel!"

"Perhaps," Lotja's small hand rests lightly on his arm. "But we cannot rewrite the past, just make changes for the future."

"Why do you even care?" He wants to run, wants to get up and flee. He is aching, the wounds on his heart oozing and throbbing. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. He was supposed to get drunk and forget. Forget his pain, forget his confusion, forget everything. 

"Because you are my brother," Lotja's voice is soft, kind. It makes him hurt in a whole new way. "You are family and you have suffered enough. You are Ivar's brother and despite what you may think, this separation hurts him. He cries your name in his sleep, some nights. More as of late. He loves you, despite everything. In time, I think he will be able to forgive you, if you come to him."

His heart cracks open like lightening cracks open the hazy summer sky. It is too much to process, too mad to even believe. Ivar is unmoving like the mighty mountain, roots dug deep. He does not change his mind, he does not soften his heart. Not anymore. 

"What does this have to do with my slave?" He is suddenly tired, and all he wants to do is slip into the oblivion of ale induced sleep. 

Lotja sighs. "All I am saying is you deserve happiness again, my brother. If you want the slave, you should take her. Odin knows she watches you as much as you watch her."

"I do not," he protests, but Lotja just snorts and rolls her eyes.

"Men, all the same. Stubborn asses." She makes to rise. "Think on what I have said, about your slave and about Ivar. I will take your slave and son into my house while you are gone. They will be protected. Goodnight, Ubbe."

She leaves him, and he lays his head down on the table in exhaustion. He is tired, tired of warring with his guilt and his pain and his desire. Tired of fighting with Ivar, tired of being the wolf outcast from the pack. Tired of denying he wants his slave, wants her in his bed and under his body. Tired of being Ubbe the Traitor, of walking around with the weight of what he has done on his shoulders. He closes his eyes. He will sleep, and he will forget. For a little while. 

He slips into the blessed quiet of the void, and the last thing he knows is small, cool hands gently tucking a cloak around him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogene settles into life in Kattegat, and Ubbe considers his fate as he sails home from the late-season raid Ivar ordered.
> 
> TW: Violence, bloodshed, major injury

Imogene has known for what feels like her entire life that she’s going to hell, ever since she discovered she understood the pagan’s rough language. She’s even more sure now. It’s so quiet and peaceful in this little house at the edge of the village without the tall wolf’s hungry eyes stalking her every movement, without his anger and his fingers like iron bands and the dead wife that hovers above his shoulder like an apparition from the depths of hell. Imogene knows now the dead wife is the reason for his temper and his despair. She sits on his shoulder and whispers poison into his ears, wicked words burying his heart under several winters’ worth of snow. 

She’s settled into a routine with Jerrick, he’s cheerful and easygoing even without his father around. Imogene supposes it’s because he was too young to remember his mother, and although he knows of her horrible fate, he doesn’t feel the blame for it that Ubbe does. Imogene hates that she thinks of him often during these quiet moments, because without his looming presence the house feels somehow empty. Part of her still fears that Ivar is going to burst through the door, that she’s going to meet the same fate as the slave Ubbe freed and married, but the days pass, and the uneasy peace holds.

…

Ubbe has always loved the sea, the iciness of the spray sharp on his cheeks, the way Floki’s ships bend to the water like a bird to the wind, and the way men sing as they row, but this journey is an agony and there is no singing, and all he can think is that Ivar is never going to forgive him now. It was true they’d captured much treasure and lost only a few men. Ivar had been right, the late raid had been a complete surprise. The enemy had been unprepared.

Ubbe had jumped from the ship, howling and savage, marshalling his crew into the boar’s tusk formation to break the enemy shield wall. Beating his axe on his shield in time with his steps, Ubbe himself was the point of the tusk. He could still feel the weight of the shield on his left arm, feel the jostling in his bones, the crush of his crew behind him as the shields crashed together like waves against a sea-cliff.

If there’s anything a Viking knows, it’s that water always wins. The sea erodes the cliffs and drags ships to her depths, and just like the inexorable ocean, the boar’s tusk broke the shield wall. The enemy had been overrun like fields during a flood, drowned under a rising tide of blood-drunk men.

And none was drunker than Ubbe, none so fierce or fast, and it seemed that every man he faced was wading through thick mud. He led a howling wave of warriors through the streets, Saxon fighters screaming and pissing themselves in terror as they fled, calling on their weak god to save them. The nailed god wasn’t listening, though, and Ubbe’s gods were there. He could hear Thor’s hammer-beats behind his breastbone, filling him with the thunder of war, driving him to the center of the village. 

To a small girl with dark hair and gray eyes that looked so like Imogene, his breath caught in his throat and the thundering in his chest subsided. He was so struck by her, his blood-trance broken, that he didn’t realize the danger until it was far too late. Until the spear darted beneath his shield, beneath them hem of his leather armor, and he was bellowing like a wounded boar as his leg buckled beneath him.

Laying on the ship, where all was quiet except for the brisk snapping of the sail and the creaking of the oars, Ubbe could still remember the shock of that moment. The fear and determination on the girl’s face, the way her mouth twisted with effort as she pushed the spear deeper, wrenching it until he screamed, writhing like a fish on a hook. And he hates the awful clarity of that moment, the stink of blood and fear rising like a fog, the awful hot-and-cold of muscles shredding against a blade, and the rush of red like a whale’s spray as she yanked the spear out. He remembers the way it hurt worse coming out than going in, and even now he thinks that’s just another terrible joke the gods are playing on him.

Because he deserves this, all of it, deserves every second of agony and the shivering so hard his teeth chatter. He deserves the memory of Margrethe bleeding to death in the great hall, the men who restrained him as he screamed and screamed, and he can’t remember if that was when they carried him screaming to the longship or kept him, screaming, from holding his dying wife. He deserves the reproach in Imogene’s eyes and the purple bruises like accusations on her pale jaw. He deserves the quiet of the men like they’re already mourning him, and he knows soon he’ll die and they’ll simply throw him into the sea because water always wins. 

But he doesn’t want it to, and even though sometimes he expects to open his eyes and see the golden roof of Odin’s hall before him, he fights that fate and reminds himself that water doesn’t always win. A beaver can build a dam and change the course of a river, and so Ubbe spends that long, quiet journey listening to the creaking of the oars and in that sound he hears the laughing of the Norns. He can feel them pulling the threads of his life, can practically see the gleam on the edge of the shears to cut his threads, and so he bargains.

What he offers must be acceptable, because the water doesn’t win. 

…

Imogene knows her days of peace are over when the horns sound, she remembers that call from the day she sailed into this God-forsaken fjord. The house is clean and quiet, the washing is done, and she has a stew simmering merrily in the hearth. She’s simply sitting in a chair mending the knee of a pair of Jerrick’s small breeches. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of a well-kept house, the familiarity of her task, or the smell of the stew, but this small house at the edge of a bustling Northern town actually feels almost like a home.

She decides to simply enjoy her last few moments of peace before the tall wolf ducks through the door, handsome and broad-shouldered, and she knows his blue eyes will be soft for a split second before that dead wife spews her poison in his ears. The door opens and she hates the smile on her face. She shouldn’t want to see Ubbe but she does. 

She doesn’t know the man who shoulders the door open, but she automatically obeys his grunt and scrambles to hold the door. Another man is framed in the doorway, the light haloing him obscuring his face, but she only has eyes for the pallet the two men carry between them. On it is her wolf, pale as new-fallen snow, and the strangled cry is out of her mouth before she can stop it. Imogene doesn’t want a new master. She wants Ubbe, wants the rare kindness in his blue eyes and the laughter he shares with his son and the cloaks he hands her when she leaves the house and the way he defends her from everyone but himself.

His eyes fly open at the sound, searching for her, and as the men set him on the bed his eyes are locked on her. There’s nothing hard in them, only something that sets her heart to battering against her ribs and she’s trapped beneath his gaze like a lamb in a wolf’s jaws. 

One of the men clears his throat, the spell shattering like ice, and Imogene turns her startled eyes to him. “Queen Lotja will send a woman with herbs for the fever. Jerrick will stay at the great hall while Ubbe heals. And you’ll care for him.” His words are clipped and businesslike, he gives Imogene a curt nod before reaching down and clasping Ubbe’s hand. “I will tell the king how you broke the shield wall.” He looks like he wants to say more, but is unsure how to proceed. He only squeezes Ubbe’s hand before he leaves.

Imogene hasn’t spoken to her God since the moment she knew he’d forgotten her. But now, the lamb holds the wolf’s life in her small, praying hands. 

…

If he’d thought the quiet journey on the sea was agony, then surely the jostling of the pallet was torture. The ship is smooth but the steps of the men are jarring, and Ubbe grinds his teeth together to keep silent. He hasn’t cried out in pain since the spear left his leg, and now isn’t the time to begin. “Ivar,” he manages to grunt out, but the men carry him past the great hall. He growls but they ignore him, and although he wants to keep protesting he’s shivering and every step is jolt through his entire body.

It’s enough that the water didn’t win. The men pause and the light dims as they carry Ubbe through a door, but he doesn’t care enough to open his eyes. First he’s managed to get himself wounded, and now he isn’t even going to see Ivar. He’s going to spend his life as an outcast among his own people just like his uncle Rollo.

He hears a small sound like a wolf pup mewling, and it’s enough to wrench his eyes open. The roundness of the girl’s face and the unruly brown hair, and the stunned fear in her gray eyes make her nearly indistinguishable from the girl who wounded him. Ubbe would rather be facing the girl with the spear, because he deserves this alternating burning and freezing, deserves the jostling of his pallet and the dishonor of not being brought before Ivar. What he doesn’t deserve is the gentle way the men set him on the bed, the reassuring squeeze on his fingers and the promise of herbs from the queen. He doesn’t deserve the compassion on Imogene’s face or the way she falls to her knees beside the bed, stroking his hair back from his clammy face.

He doesn’t deserve any of this but he made a bargain and he manages a smile that’s probably more of a grimace because water doesn’t always win, and Lotja was right all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was so long between updates, sometimes life gets in the way!
> 
> Find us on Tumblr if you haven't already, and of course let us know what you guys think!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogene cares for Ubbe after his grievous wound, and comes to some conclusions.
> 
> TW: none

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait you guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and that you all had great holidays!

The fever grips him badly. 

The Queen sends herbs, but the wound is deep and wasn’t treated well on the boats. It begins to smell shortly after he arrives home, and it only worsens. He becomes more and more delirious, mumbling nonsense as he slips in and out of consciousness. He sweats and shakes, his breath harsh and skin flushed. He needs almost constant care. 

It had been difficult at first. Her virginal modesty had made her mortified to touch his thigh, to be so close to what lay between his legs. It was improper for a young unmarried lady to be so close to a man, surely doing so was a mortal sin. But I have sinned ever since I was taken, she had sighed softly to herself. I am already on the path of the damned, what is one more offence? So she had rolled up her sleeves, and pushed her feelings aside. 

She still blushes, but she marches on. She cleans and plasters and bandages. She wipes his fevered brow, removes his tunic so she can sponge his neck and chest (the action leaves her heart hammering and mouth strangely dry). She spoons broth and water into his mouth. She stokes the fire in the hearth, and the fire in her heart. She can no longer deny it; she cares for the wolf. It scares her and angers her, but she does. If she truly did not, she would leave him to die of infection. But that thought causes her heart to ache in a way that makes her want to rip it out of her chest. Perhaps she is being slowly consumed by evil. Little by little, pious Imogene is being stripped away to be replaced by a creature of darkness. 

Maybe his gods are demons, and they are twisting her to their will. Clawing the light out of her and replacing it with ash and brimstone. She half expects, when she looks into the bowl of water she washes him with, to see her eyes have turned black. 

But a creature of horror would not want to pray. And pray she does. She moves her little cot over next to the bed, and spends half her fitful nights in earnest prayer. She begs for her wolf’s life, cries for the cub to not have both parents taken from him. She prays and prays until she is utterly spent. She falls into a meager hour’s sleep with tears on her cheeks and an Amen on her lips. 

On the fifth day, the fever finally breaks. His harsh breathing evens out, his flushed skin begins to return to a normal colour, and the wound does not smell so bad. She wants to cry in relief, but she is simply too exhausted. She whispers a soft thanksgiving as she sits beside him on the bed, wiping the last of the sweat off of his face. Something warm flares in her chest. Her cries have been answered, she has not been forgotten. It makes her feels more at peace than she has felt since she arrived. 

“Perhaps I can be both,” she says quietly, and the words hang like a promise in the air. “Perhaps I can be light and dark. Perhaps....this is part of a plan. One I cannot yet understand.”

She looks at his rising and falling chest, unable to help the pinking of her cheeks as her eyes trace the strong muscles and smooth skin. She takes a trembling hand and places it over his heart, feeling it beat strongly under her palm. It resonates through her like a drum, pounding in time with her own. 

He stirs then, and his eyes open. She starts in alarm, and quickly makes to snatch her hand from his chest. But he stops her, placing a large hand over her own. The other one reaches up to gently cup her cheek, and the shiver that runs through her almost rips her in two. He has never touched her so gently. 

“You are so beautiful,” his voice is hoarse and thick, like he is already falling back asleep. “Like you have been blessed by Freya herself.”

Imogene’s eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open. He must still be delirious, she thinks. He must think I am his wife. He must-

“Imogene.” 

Her name sounds like spring bursting forth from the cold grip of winter. It shatters her and pieces her together all at once. She wants to hear it again. And again. And again. 

Ubbe’s eyes slip closed, and his hand falls from her face. Her skin misses his touch as soon as it leaves, crying desperately for rasping callouses and warm heat. 

“Imogene, Imogene,” he mumbles, also removing his grip from her hand on his chest. “I promised the sea, I will try....”

Sleep takes him then, and he says no more. She has no idea what he means, but she feels like if a man like Ubbe makes a promise, he keeps it. 

She cannot deny it, she shaken to the core. But it feels....not wrong. Like something has fallen into place. She feels like she has crossed a threshold, and there will be no going back.

She looks at Ubbe, sleeping peacefully for the first time in five days. She cannot help herself; a small smile tugs at her lips. It feels foreign, but welcome. Before she can overthink it, she leans down and presses her lips to his forehead. 

“Sleep, Ubbe,” she breathes against his skin, his name tumbling from her lips like she has always spoken it. “Sleep. I will continue to watch over you.”

So the wolf slumbers, and the lamb keeps her vigil.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ubbe's fever breaks, and he realizes that sometimes old, ragged things can be created anew.

Ubbe is almost afraid to let his gaze linger on her when he awakens, afraid her gentle hands were merely part of his fevered dreams. He’s afraid of the disgust he’s sure will still be in her eyes, the despair he’s seen in the gray depths since that first morning. But it isn’t there. There’s only a shy smile and the barest glimpse of blushing cheeks before she suddenly busies herself with tending the fire. It’s the lightest Ubbe has felt in years.

His leg aches when he places weight on it, but he can’t bear to be lying down any longer, to be not touching her. He’s acutely aware of his bare chest, of the deep red of her cheeks when he gently grasps her chin and slowly tilts her head up. “Imogene,” he whispers, and the nervous giggle that spills from his lips is like the answer to a question he’s been asking his entire life.

“You should still be in bed,” she reprimands him, voice breathless, and he thinks he could listen to her speak forever. It seems impossible that once, all he wanted from her was silence so he could forget she even existed. 

“Then come with me,” Ubbe suggests, and the deep red blush of her cheeks reminds him of berries that show bright against evergreen boughs. He doesn’t know why but he likes the sight of her blushing; he’s already imagining the color her cheeks will be when he takes her into his bed to do more than sleep. He’s tired still, and weak, he can feel his muscles shaking like a newborn foal’s, and he knows that moment isn’t today. He’s always hated an empty bed, though. “Only if you want to.” He can see something like fear in her eyes, but it disappears with his words. 

The fever burnt the shame out of him, although he can still feel the memory of it like a bad dream. He promised the sea he would try, and unlike last time he won’t drag her to his bed by her hair. There is no room for regret, not anymore, not when there’s wide gray eyes that look at him with such warmth and shyness. He feels a soft smile tilting up the corners of his lips and an unaccustomed hesitation gives him pause. How can he, a warrior and a leader of armies, be standing before this tiny woman nervous as a virgin boy?

Hesitation rolls off her like smoke from a fire, but after only a few moments she nods. Imogene slips quietly beneath his arm and supports him on their way back to the bed. She steps around the cot there, and Ubbe notes with mild surprise just how close she must have been to him in these past days. How did he not know she was there, all hours of the day and night? In his memories there is only shadows and pain, the half-forgotten caress of gentle hands and a sound like quiet sobbing. 

He’s exhausted as he drops to the furs, his shaking leg refusing to hold him upright any longer. Ubbe leans back and opens his arms to her. He can see the hesitation in her eyes still, and he doesn’t want to scare her off. The wolf is a more patient creature than he gets credit for. Wolves are not all snarling yellow teeth and a hunting song, they are not simply jaws snapping shut around a writhing neck.

They are lovers and home, the warmth of a hearth in the dead of winter, and Ubbe promised the sea he would try. He will be vicious no longer, not in his own home. He can be like the wolf, like his namesake; he can be joy and savagery in turn. Ubbe can be complete. He’s spent his whole life struggling for completion, seeking it in all the wrong places: a mother stretched too thin by a demanding youngest child. A father who ran off in disgrace. Brothers too young and too rash and too full of anger to be anything but an unwitting burden. Then a slave-girl, beautiful but doomed, and the child who looked so like her that sometimes his face was a blow to the chest. 

Ubbe knows he’s been worn thin like an old cloak and patched by clumsy hands, but sometimes there’s an elegance in ragged things that tell a story. When Imogene sits, leaning back against the headboard, Ubbe thinks that maybe the next stitches to come will be more skillful. He settles his head onto her ample thighs, and her nails scratching gently against his scalp have his muscles relaxing almost against his will.

He wants to stay awake, to savor this, but it’s easy to relax into her warmth, to let himself be carried away by the steady rising and falling of belly. Her breathing is like the certainty of tides, and before Ubbe drifts into sleep he found himself thinking that maybe the water won. Maybe this was what the sea wanted, all along. 

The bed is cold when he wakes up, his head resting on a pillow, and his heart drops to the soles of his feet as he opens his eyes. Imogene’s back is to him, crouched over the fire, and she averts her eyes when she turns back to him. “Your wound. It still needs to be washed.” Her hands are shaking, water sloshing gently over the sides of the small bowl she carries. She sits on the edge of the bed beside him, balancing the bowl on her lap, and her face is cherry-red and so pretty as she dips a rag into the water.

Ubbe leans on his elbows to watch her, amused to see she’s cut a hole into the leg of his breeches so she can tend his wound. He never did understand Christian modesty. He hisses at the first contact of the warm rag with the tender wound, but forces himself to exhale and relax. Imogene is silent, hiding her blushing face behind a curtain of dark hair, but at last Ubbe isn’t afraid to look at her too long. 

When she drops the rag into the water, Ubbe’s hands dart forward to grab hers. He heaves into a sitting position with a soft grunt. Her gray eyes are wide and soft, locked onto his, as he gently presses his lips against first one of her palms, then the other. “Thank you,” he breathes, lips move against her skin. Imogene’s fingers tentatively cup his cheek. He leans into that small touch, that promise of tenderness, and closes his eyes. A ragged thing made new.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new tension between Ubbe and Imogene continues to grow as Ubbe continues to heal. Will it finally come to a head?
> 
> TW: None

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait on this one, hopefully you all are still with us! Please enjoy this next installment :)

Imogene feels as if she’s fallen into another life. 

She should have expected it, the shift in Ubbe, after their exchanges upon his awakening. But it still shakes it to her core every time he looks at her, the ice that was once in his eyes melted into something she is too afraid to put words to. His voice is no longer harsh, it’s soft and low and slips over her skin like golden rays of late summer sunshine. He does not touch her often, she has the suspicion that he is afraid to spook her. An occasional gentle hand on her arm (his hands are so big and warm and oh, she shouldn’t want them on her but she does), but little else. Everything about him has softened and changed, and it thrills her and terrifies her at the same time. 

She will not even dwell on the bandage changes. With Ubbe awake, they are even more torturous than before. She keeps her eyes on his leg and absolutely does not look at his face. Or anywhere else for that matter. 

“I cannot help that,” Ubbe says one morning, pressing the furs over his hips as she blushes and stammers. Even his cheeks are stained slightly. “It is only natural.”

Imogene does not know what mortifies her more, the fact that it has happened or the fact that she feels suddenly, terribly curious. 

Jerrick returns home once Ubbe is deemed out of danger, and the little cub’s presence takes some of the heaviness out of the air. They are actually able to hold short, mostly practical conversations. But with every look, every little touch, every time her name tumbles from his lips, Imogene feels like she is stepping closer and closer to some sort of cliff. Her feet move of their own accord, and she no longer feels like she has the strength to stop them. 

She wonders when she will finally tumble over the edge and plunge headfirst into the abyss. 

It is not long before she gets her answer. 

It is late in the evening, barely five days after Ubbe’s fever has broken. Jerrick is long asleep, and the two adults sit quietly by the fire. Imogene is mending some of the little cub’s torn shirts, Ubbe is resting his leg and drinking ale. The tension in the air seems thicker on this night, and Imogene feels a tingle creep along her spine. 

“I think I will try walking outside tomorrow,” Ubbe breaks the quiet. “My leg pained me much less today.” 

Imogene nods. “A good idea,” she replies softly, not looking up from her work. She can feel his gaze on her, and she cannot meet those eyes. Not tonight, when it feels like she is right the edge of that cliff. 

“Jerrick will be happy. He wishes to go fishing down in the harbour soon.”

“Hmmmm.” 

“It is his very favourite past time.”

“I see.”

Ubbe falls silent at her short responses. She sneaks a glance at him. He’s looking down at his cup, brows knit. She feels the urge to smooth the creases between them. Quickly she goes back to her work before he can catch her staring. 

He sits in silence for another moment, then-

“I want to kiss you.”

Her fingers falter at the abrupt and bold statement, her eyes wide as she whips her head up to look at him. The needle slips in her hands and stabs her finger. Hard.

“Ouch!” She cries, the pain pushing her surprise to the back of her mind. “Oh, that hurt!” 

She looks around for a cloth, eyes welling with tears, but Ubbe is quicker. He grabs a rag from beside him and slides his body over next to her. 

Her breath catches in her throat, and she cannot move or even think.

He picks up her wounded hand in his, and her heart gives a flutter at the feel of his skin on hers. Gently, he folds the cloth around her bleeding finger. 

“Hush, little lamb,” he coos, stroking the skin of her wrist soothingly. “It is just a little prick. You are alright.”

His blue eyes stare down into hers, and she cannot look away. The abyss she has long been hurtling towards yawns before her, whispering her name from its inky depths. This is it, she thinks. This is the leap, and he knows it too. 

“Imogene....” His voice is breathy, pleading. Pleading for her not to turn away, not to close the door on what is unfolding. The hand not holding hers settles against her cheek, like that night he awoke, and she cannot help but lean into the touch. 

“I cannot hold back any longer,” he whispers. “To finally acknowledge my ache for you, to be so close and not have a taste of you, it is pure torture.”

The wolf aches for her. Not to devour her, nor tear her to shreds. The wolf longs to taste her, kiss her. Every part of her body feels like it has been plunged into flames. 

“I-“ she cannot even form words. “I-I mean-you-“

A calloused thumb runs gently over her trembling lips. “I will not take what you will not give me,” he murmurs, and she knows he does not only mean kisses. “But I can see the way you gaze at me when you think I am not looking.”

She flushes. “I-I did not know you saw....”

His thumb makes another pass over her mouth, and her heart feels like it will give out at any moment. “How could I not, when all I do is look at you?” His eyes move down to her lips, and something hungry flickers in their depths. “Please, tell me I am not wrong, little lamb. Please.” 

The suddenly insecurity in his voice cuts through her like a knife. 

She flashes back to that night, when his fever broke. When she realized a wolf had made its den under her ribs. Fear had still clung to her then, and she can feel it pinching at her with its sharp talons now.

But the abyss is calling. The great unknown sings to her, and she knows she wants to jump. Perhaps she will fall and shatter her bones. Or, perhaps she will find her wings and fly. 

So she swallows the fear, closes her eyes, tilts her face. 

And waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we did say sloooooow burn haha ;)


	13. Chapter 13

Imogene is plummeting into a black abyss that she’s been heading for since the moment the wolf first caught her against his chest. Ubbe’s thumb grazes lightly over her lips and settles against her cheek, his warm palm cupping her jaw and his thumb is stroking her cheek so gently her chest aches. His breathing is soft and deep, fluttering over her skin like the breath of spring itself, and Imogene wants to open her eyes but doesn’t dare.

She knows if she looks at him now, with her chest cracked open and raw and his hand on her face, she will kiss him and kiss him and never stop. The tempo of his breathing changes, and she can’t move. “Imogene,” he whispers, “open your eyes.” She’s afraid, so afraid, but his voice is so full of tenderness that she hesitates for only a moment. 

His eyes loom blue and wide as the sky, a mere breath from hers, a soft smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Your eyes are so strange, the same gray of a stormy ocean. The sea was just that color the day we left Kattegat, heading to your homeland.” He remembers his fever dream--water always wins, and so he thinks that perhaps it’s been winning all along. Maybe this was the plan from the very start. Who is he to question such things?

The wolf tilts his head slightly to the side, and his nose is sliding against hers when a scream from Jerrick’s bed startles them apart. Ubbe lurches to his feet before Imogene can even blink, a warrior’s instinct propelling him thoughtlessly toward his son’s bed. His hand flies to his hip, searching for a blade that isn’t there.

Ubbe plops heavily onto Jerrick’s bed, stretching his wounded leg out straight and smoothing the sweaty blond hair back from the pale forehead. “Papa!” Jerrick scrambles into his father’s lap with a relieved cry. Ubbe wraps him protectively in a hug, snugging him firmly against his broad chest. He adjusts Jerrick’s weight onto his good leg. “I had a bad dream. That Imogene couldn’t save you, and you died and I had to stay with Uncle Ivar.” He shudders convulsively, and Ubbe presses a kiss onto his temple.

“I’m here, and I’m never leaving you,” Ubbe promises. Jerrick pops his thumb sleepily into his mouth and sighs. “Tomorrow we’ll go fishing in the harbor,” Ubbe continues, offering a distraction, and the little pup nods solemnly. Imogene opens her mouth to protest that Ubbe shouldn’t push himself that hard, but he meets her eye over Jerrick’s head and mouths “no” to her. She bites her lip, but nods. 

They stay like this for a few minutes that could be years, with the fire crackling softly and Ubbe just holding his son, stroking his hair until his eyes begin to droop. The sight fills Imogene with peace--she wonders how this is the same man that ordered her to lick his armor clean, and realizes with a start maybe it isn’t, and maybe she isn’t the same, either. Piece by piece they’ve been building something new together--something that started off with whimpers and snarls but slowly grew into content sighs and a silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” Ubbe whispers against Jerrick’s temple, and the pup hesitates only a moment before he nods.

His small hand reaches toward Imogene, fingers splayed. “Mama,” he whines sleepily. Imogene can’t answer him around the lump in her throat, but she sets her mending down and goes to crouch beside the bed. She strokes his fair hair back from his face, finding the way it sticks up so adorable she wants to crush him to her chest. She doesn’t, only gives his hand a gentle squeeze as Ubbe sets him back on the bed and tucks the blankets around him. 

They stand watch over the bed while he falls back asleep, watching the way his chest rises and falls as his breathing slows. It’s grounding, having something to focus on besides the way Ubbe’s hand brushes against her thigh when he shifts his weight, or the way her breath hitches when he spins to face her. 

His hands cup her chin before she’s even realized he was raising them, and his mouth is suddenly on hers and she thinks woozily that maybe it’s good he surprised her like this. Because when she doesn’t have time to think about it, she isn’t scared of kissing him. She’s only scared she’ll never stop.


End file.
